


A kiss...

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: Kisses... [8]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 19:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16143503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: ... as a promise.





	A kiss...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stopmopingstarthoping](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopmopingstarthoping/gifts).



> **Big bold reminder that Final Fantasy XV and all of its content is property of Square Enix.** I just like to play in the sandpit they've created for the fans.
> 
> If this looks familiar to you, that's because it is. This used to be part of a multi-chapter pain-in-my ass, but I've decided to take that down and make every chapter a standalone oneshot. Apologies for any confusion caused.
> 
> Prompts are from [this list](https://wrathofscribbles.tumblr.com/post/177169224758/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a).

Their first kiss is a gamble on Ignis’s part, meant to throw the Glaive off his natural rhythm in the sparring match they’d agreed to, hand fisting in his tank top and yanking him close so he can slant his mouth over Nyx’s.  He has a moment to enjoy the way Nyx bodily stumbles into him, caught off guard as he is, the sudden addition of weight driving Ignis a solitary, steadying step backward before Nyx freezes against him.  He has a moment to enjoy the surprised noise seemingly torn from Nyx’s throat, the _give_ under his teeth as he bites at the lower lip and tugs on it as he draws back.  It’s only a couple of seconds, really, before his impulse control snaps back into place and he realises all at once _what he’s done_ , stepping back and scrambling to remain calm and collected when all he wants to do is turn tail and jump out the nearest window much like Noctis does when avoiding his responsibilities.  Can he blame the smirk?

Yes, that’s exactly what he’s going to do, he’ll blame the smirk and the insufferable urge to wipe it right off Ulric’s face.

He clears his throat as he slides more distance between them, fits a polite smile around his mouth and checks the urge to remove his glasses and clean them of imaginary smudges, chances a glance in Nyx’s direction to find him frozen exactly as he’d left him, wide-eyed and with hands raised as though to either hook him back in or shove him further away, certainly dazed and _perhaps_  poleaxed.

Ignis certainly hopes for the latter.  It might prove an advantage in the coming match.

“Do try to present me a challenge, hm?”  He says, low and even and _thank the Six he can fake composure better than every member of the King’s Council combined,_ and wisely decides to take his leave before anything else can tumble out of his mouth and muddy the waters any further.

Victory is _sweet_  when the gamble pays off and he has Nyx winded and _down_ , disarmed and palms up in a sign of surrender, _yield_  a gasp from a throat bobbing under the careful touch of his lance, not a drop of blood to be seen.  Sweet and _feral_  and he knows, even without the lick of heat up his spine, he’ll be back for more, to meet the challenge in those stormy eyes, fight fire with fire until they both burn.

* * *

He’s the first to go down when he crosses blades with Axis next, deciding a wide range of sparring partners will do him more good than harm.  The quietest member of the main group comes at him with more ferocity than strictly necessary for a _friendly_  match, jabbing quick and warping quicker, an erratic squirrel on crack that Ignis cannot track for the life of him, and so it comes as no surprise when his leg collapses with one efficient kick behind his knee and that’s it, over and done with in less than five minutes.

Defeat is salt on his tongue, running over the split in his lip and fixing the crooked angle of his glasses, silent save for the harsh push and pull of air through his lungs, unease pricking at his stomach as he watches Axis stalk off to where the redhead - Tredd - is waiting, a fury with no source cloaked around him like a physical thing.

_Bad blood_ , Ignis thinks, but has no recollection of any instance in which he could have offended the Glaive so badly for him to be out to tan his hide.  Still, he has a reputation to keep, and can’t _quite_  keep the smirk under wraps when he pulls on the threads of Noct’s magic where they wind through his veins, throws them out in a delicate weave along the ground and - he might have been driven to one _knee_ , but Axis is the first to _fall_ , his prowling gait catching on the sudden slick of ice under his feet and sending him ass over teakettle, just like that.

Nyx blocks his view of any reaction in a snap of phantom blue and glowing embers, hand phasing from the ether first to offer assistance, his body following when Ignis accepts and he’s sturdy and _solid_  when Ignis stumbles, knee protesting his weight.  They’re so close he can feel the heat of the Glaive’s body, surely far too warm to be normal, can see the odd flecks of silver in icy eyes, the scar above the brow arching in slow increments.

_“Red suits you, Scientia,”_  he says in a low murmur, and before Ignis can question him about that, there’s a thumb tracing his split lip and smearing the blood there, a mouth touching to the corner of his and it’s too fleeting, too teasing to be a kiss, and yet.  And _yet_.

He wants, and realises with _stunning_ clarity in that one moment... he’s in trouble.

* * *

Their third, fourth, fifth, and sixth kisses all mesh into one _glorious_  mess of fingers buried in rain-slick hair and a mouth on his, a teasing flick of tongue enough to have him _moan_  as Nyx backs him up against the wall and slides a thigh between his like it belongs there - _it does it does it does oh gods it does_ \- and he should probably stop this, there is a _very good reason_  for stopping this but he can’t _think_  what it is, doesn’t want to, doesn’t _need_  to when there’s teeth at his neck and raspy laughter fogging his brain.

But Nyx stops, yanks on his hair just enough to hurt when Ignis catches hold of a belt loop in protest.  He stops and draws back and _hellfire_ , he suits the flush of desire and kiss-bitten lips, the shudder when Ignis burrows his fingers under a soaked shirt and drags his nails over the vulnerable skin there, a taunt, a _challenge_.

“I should go.”

“You should stay.”

“Next time, when we’re sober.”

“Oh fuck you, Ulric.”

“I thought that was the plan, Ignis.”

Oh but he _burns_.

* * *

They kiss goodnight and they kiss good morning, there’s one for partings and one for hellos and “I’m glad you’re safe”s and a tender dusting of them over Nyx’s back and shoulders when the nightmares come calling, dozens of them on Ignis’s fingers when they shiver and shake from the stress of warping and he fights to remain rooted by Nyx’s side rather than falling to pieces in the ether, the place in between here and _there,_  where the voices are loudest and there’s a presence looming on the horizon, absolute, stifling, _dreadful_.

There’s a kiss for “I love you” and one for “I missed you” and one for “I’m going to fucking kill you” but never, _not once_ , is there one for goodbye.

Until the lasting night comes to an end in the ruins of Insomnia and the Psychomancer’s body flakes apart to reveal Nyx underneath, pale skin mottled with the Scourge’s sickness, exhausted and scarred and straining to breathe, to _speak_ , to stay on his feet.  Ten years his heart has bled and broken for this man, grieving over a death he’d suspected but never witnessed, and here, now, with his friends by his side and insistent hands pressing the hilts of his Glaive’s weapons to his chest, a silent plea to take them, Ignis swears he feels the touch of death himself as it whispers through his chest and silences that furiously beating thing, strangling it as easily as the breath in his lungs, catching in his throat, until all he can say is a mangled gasp of his lover’s name.

The kukris add their weight behind his daggers, waiting to answer his call, and he catches Nyx when he falls, grabs a hand in his and holds on tight.

“You son of a _bitch_.  I told you not to play hero!”

Rasping, dying laughter, barely enough to light up the eyes going dull and dark faster than Ignis can bear, and the hand in his trembles as it lifts his fingers to cracked lips, a kiss for every breath left upon his knuckles.

“See you on the other side, Ignis.”

* * *

_“Why do you never say goodbye before you leave?  We both know there’s a chance you won’t come back.”  
_

_“We don’t believe in it, back in Galahd.  Death is only a temporary thing, so rather than goodbye we say ‘see you later’ or something along those lines.”_

_“That is... almost comforting.”  
_

_“You’ve gotta take what comfort you can in war, Ignis.  Even if it hurts.”  
_

* * *

A kiss left over a silent heart and hands plucking at the coeurl pelt from his homeland, the only memento he’ll take.

“Wait for me, then,” he whispers in Nyx’s ear, and lets the grief run free in the fire he wields, burning his lover’s body so the daemons won’t have him again.


End file.
